An Irish Poem
by Harpy101
Summary: This is a fantasy meeting of Anna and John at home on St.Patrick's Day night. This was requested by a generous reader. I searched my volume of Irish poetry and came upon this little gem by dumb luck, "No Sickness Like A Secret Love" and is indeed 15th or 16th century by an anonymous author and translated from the Irish Gaelic.


As a storm pounded Downton Abbey, splashing the windows with bands of hard rain, Anna's brain was busy with her lists: the special dinner tonight to celebrate St. Patrick's Day feast, inspired by Mr. Branson, which prompted His Lordship to retire early (the excuse being this afternoon's return from the House of Lords), the nanny had left early so the baby needed checking on while Lady Mary was at dinner and other details to take care of before she could call it a night. John had been in London with His Lordship and had come back with a trunk of new garments and supplies to organize; she had not seen him now for three days.

When their eyes met in the downstairs hallway it was more than the usual glad sight; they were both feeling heat tonight. His look had hunger in it; she felt the weight and warmth of that look all the way to her toes. As Anna moved toward the servant's hall people bustled by and they both put on their "daytime" expressions, but she could sense as she got closer to him that they both needed some time together. It had been four days since they'd had a proper kiss, they had been so busy.

"I'll be late tonight," she sighed.

"I know," He was carrying one of the guest oilskin coats over his arm, "This one shouldn't swallow you entirely, " he said, "It's beginning to sleet out there," He held out the coat as she backed into it; his fingers lingered across her bosom as he turned her to check the fit, "I'll make a fire before you get home so you can get warm,"

Anna nodded. She glanced around and then leaned in to mutter, "Then straight to bed,"

He took her point completely. "Then, straight to bed," he said, the meaning simmering in his eyes.

"After you keep your promise, of course,"

He smiled.

The walk home was wet and cold, with freezing rain slippery on the road and stinging her face, but Anna's step was light. Her husband was waiting for her, although he might be asleep after the trip back from London today. Anna had asked him to do her a special favor tonight. They liked to take turns reading to each other occasionally and Anna loved her husband's voice. For St. Patrick's Day she had requested that he read her an Irish poem. Perhaps he had found time in London to pick up a new volume.

She stepped into the warmth of the cottage with a welcome sigh. John brought a towel, shook out the oilskin and poured a cup of tea for her. Anna took off her hat, relishing the sight of her husband in his undershirt. It was her favorite shirt on him. She liked the way it clung to his chest and shoulders. She liked his hair shaken loose after he had been at the washbasin, and the slight beginnings of beard. When not in full dress he had the look of pure manhood about him, which suited Anna.

"Will you read to me?" she asked. "Did you pick out an Irish poem?"

"I will not read to you tonight,"

"Oh," Anna thought that he must be tired. But it wasn't like to John to say it that way. "Why?"

"Because," he said, with the tiniest jog of his head in modesty, "I'm going to recite it to you,"

"Oh!" she said, delighted.

"But I want to tell you about this poem first," he was helping her to undress now, "I've known bits and pieces of it for years. My grandmother knew it, and my mother, although they didn't know how closely I was listening, I think. It's very old, used often at Irish weddings, and very...well," he stopped for a moment, then, "When you and I were apart it would come back to me. It seemed to describe you perfectly. And it seemed that I had dreamed you in this poem a long time ago,"

"Oh my," said Anna. She put down her cup and went to the mirror to take the pins from her hair. "Who is the author?"

"It's anonymous. Fifteenth or sixteenth century, it's thought. Translated from the Gaelic,"

Anna waited. John hesitated, stepping up behind her.

"_No sickness worse than secret love,_" he said, and stopped.

Anna's hair came down and she looked in the mirror, seeing him standing behind her. They were silent for a time, with thoughts of years before sifting down between them. Anna blinked. He put a hand to her cheek and brought her head back against his chest, very gently wiping a tear away with the tips of his fingers; they kept their eyes linked in the mirror. He swallowed, clearing his throat, and started again,

"_No sickness worse than secret love_  
_It's long, alas, since I pondered that,_"

He turned her to him now and finished unbuttoning her blouse and her skirt.

"_No more delay; I now confess_  
_my secret love, so slight and slim,_"

He smiled, taking her waist in two hands and guiding her back to the bedroom. Anna sat on the bed. He sat beside her and began taking off her shoes.

"_I gave a love that I can't conceal_  
_to her hooded hair, her shy intent_,"

He was sliding her stockings down her legs.

"_Her narrow brows, her blue-green eyes_  
_her even teeth and aspect soft_,"

Anna's stockings and shoes were off. She inched back on the bed, still in her slip and nickers. He laid down beside her,

"_I gave as well - and so declare-_  
_my soul's love to her soft throa_t,"

Anna lay back under her husband's hands and mouth, her fatigue forgotten. He teased her for a time, then continued,

"_Her lovely voice, delicious lips,_  
_snowy bosom, pointed breast_,"

He covered all of the ground mentioned in the poem while Anna heard herself cooing; she had been so tired just a minute ago.

"_And may not overlook, alas_,"

He reached under her slip to untie her nickers and pull them down,

"_My cloud-hid love for her body bright_,"

Her slip was off; she lay back as he took her feet in his hands.

"_Her trim straight foot, her slender sole,_"

He stroked her insteps lightly with his thumbs, which was very arousing for Anna. She laughed and writhed a little, but her blood was up, too, and he knew it.

"_Her languid laugh, her timid hand_,"

He pulled her up to sit, holding her two hands in his. He said very sincerely,

"_Allow there was never known before_  
_such a love as mine for her,_  
_There lives not, never did, nor will,_  
_one who more gravely stole my love_,"

He kissed her. It was a beautiful moment in the poem, but Anna was tugging at the undershirt. A different mood had taken her now.

"_Do not torment me, lady_," he said, his voice jostled by her efforts. Anna giggled.

"_Let our purposes agree_,"

Anna had off with the rest of his clothes and tossed them on the chair; she climbed over him, lowering herself onto him and sighing at the meeting of skin, the smell of him, the soft hair on his chest and belly caressing her. He held her face and kissed her; they lost themselves for a time.

"Is that the end?" she breathed.

"No," he said, eyes shut for a moment as he thought. Anna was caressing him in long and slow strokes the way he liked. She was ready and took him in, settling herself firmly with her feet wedged under his thighs. He groaned.

Anna sat looking down at him.

"Well?"

"Ohhh. Urm-"

His hands were on her hips. He attempted to lift her. Anna pulled herself down more tightly by levering with her feet.

"Finish my poem, please," she said, grinning.

He took her hands in his, twining their fingers.

"_You are my spouse on this Fair Plain_  
_so let us embrace_,"

They stared at each other, nearly panting.

"It's beautiful. I love it, John. Later will you tell it to me again?"

"I might," he said, eyes glinting. He pulled on her hips but Anna sat upright, driving her weight straight down onto him. "Will you?"

"If you won't torment me, lady," They both began laughing.

Anna lowered herself full length onto him and kissed him. The storm, lashing vines and freezing rain on the windows, went unnoticed.

_All above text in italics from the anonymous Irish poem, "No Sickness Like A Secret Love"._


End file.
